For a moment, Rose stood frozen, her mind struggling to process what she had just heard. Her hands trembled slightly at her sides. She had always been passionate about writing, and seeing her work published in the school paper had been a source of great pride. To suddenly be told she could no longer contribute—it felt like the ground had been pulled from under her.
Her throat tightened, but she forced herself to ask the only question that mattered in that moment.
Rose: Why?
Mrs. Emily sat up properly, adjusting her chair so she could look Rose directly in the eye. There was a heaviness in the way she moved, a sign that she did not take pleasure in what she was about to say.
Mrs Emily: Why? Because I said so.
The words hit Rose like a truck. Her breath caught in her throat, and she clenched her fists at her sides. But Mrs. Emily wasn't finished.
Mrs Emily: Here's the thing, it's not that your short stories aren't good, but they lack something important. They don't have a soul.
Rose lifted her gaze, confusion evident in her expression.
Rose: Huh?
Mrs. Emily sighed and softened her tone slightly, sensing the bewilderment on Rose's face.
Mrs Emily: Let me explain in simpler terms. Your writing is technically sound, but it lacks emotion, raw depth—the kind of feeling that makes a story truly resonate with readers. When you came to me with your first short story a year ago, it had a spark. It had passion, something real. But the recent stories you've submitted… they don't have that same essence. It's like you're writing from a distance rather than from the heart.
Mrs. Emily paused, allowing the weight of her words to settle before continuing.
Mrs Emily: And that's not all. I don't know if you've noticed, but during the last academic year, your stories weren't well received.
Rose's head snapped up, her expression filled with shock.
Rose: What?! They weren't…?!
Mrs. Emily shook her head.
Mrs Emily: No, they weren't. And judging by your reaction, it seems like you weren't even aware of it. (pauses) The most common complaint was that your writing felt detached, that 'this writer is covering topics they don't truly understand.' And after reviewing your work myself, I have to say…I see their point.
A wave of coldness washed over Rose. Her breathing grew unsteady as she recalled all the hours she had sacrificed, the nights she had forfeited sleep just to polish her work. The idea that her effort had been met with disinterest—disdain, even—was like a dagger to her chest.
Tears welled in her eyes, spilling onto her cheeks as she clenched the fabric of her skirt. Anger and hurt swirled inside her, a storm of emotions she couldn't contain.
Rose: It's not fair. They don't know anything. They don't know how hard it is to craft a story, to go through so many drafts, to rewrite scenes over and over again. How hard it is to make character interactions feel real… They don't understand anything! So why should their opinions decide my fate as a writer?!
Mrs. Emily remained composed, watching as Rose vented her frustration. When Rose finally quieted, still trembling from the intensity of her outburst, Mrs. Emily spoke again, her voice gentle yet unwavering.
Mrs Emily: Because you're writing for an audience, aren't you? A story is only truly great when both the author and the readers connect with it. It can't be a one-sided affair.
She sighed, rubbing her temple.
Mrs Emily: Every writer faces criticism, Rose. The ones who grow and succeed are those who learn from it, adapt, and improve. That's part of the journey, especially for those still climbing the ladder.
Mrs. Emily sighed softly as she watched Rose struggle to hold back her tears. Without hesitation, she reached for the tissue box on her desk and handed one to Rose.
Mrs Emily: Here.
Rose hesitated for a moment before accepting the tissue with a quiet "thank you." She removed her glasses, blinking away the blur of tears, and carefully dabbed at her eyes.
As Rose wiped her face, Mrs. Emily turned back to her desk. She opened one of the drawers, rummaged through it briefly, and then pulled out a neatly stacked collection of papers. With a thoughtful expression, she placed them on the table between them, nudging them slightly toward Rose.
Rose: (puzzled) What's…this?
Mrs Emily: Some short stories I wrote in my spare time.
Rose blinked in surprise.
Rose: You wrote these?
Mrs. Emily nodded.
Mrs Emily: Yes. And while I am stopping you from writing for the school paper, it's only temporary.
Rose: It's temporary?
Mrs. Emily: Yes, but that depends on you. You have potential, Rose. It hurts me to hear people criticize your work because I know how much passion you put into it. But passion alone isn't enough—you need to refine your craft. I'm giving you these stories as a guide, a blueprint to help you improve. Read them, analyze them, and use them to evolve your writing. Then, come back with a new short story, and we'll publish it together.
Rose stared at the file in her hands, her fingers tightening around the edges. The warmth of gratitude mixed with the sting of humiliation. She had been knocked down, but she wasn't being abandoned. There was still a chance.
Rose: T-Thank you, ma'am.
Mrs Emily: No worries. Just get to work okay?
As the school bell rang, signaling the end of lunch, Rose stood up and made her way toward the door. Just as she reached for the handle, Mrs. Emily spoke once more.
Mrs Emily: And one more thing—you have one month to improve and return my short stories. By then, you should have sharpened your writing skills. If you haven't, your ban from the school paper becomes permanent. Are we clear?
Rose exhaled heavily, turning back to face her teacher. Despite everything, there was a newfound determination in her gaze.
Rose: Yes ma'am.
Mrs. Emily offered a small smile before dismissing her with a nod. With a deep breath, Rose walked out of the office, closing the door behind her.
******
That night, as soon as Rose finished her dinner, she retreated to the solitude of her bedroom, locking the door behind her. She needed to be alone, away from any distractions, as she delved into Mrs. Emily's collection of short stories. With a deep breath, she settled onto her bed, the dim glow of her bedside lamp casting a soft halo over the pages.
As she read, she couldn't help but compare Mrs. Emily's writing to her own. Every sentence, every paragraph, every carefully crafted story seemed to echo the lessons her teacher had imparted earlier that day. The realization hit her like a wave, washing over her with undeniable clarity—Mrs. Emily had been right. The depth, the structure, the finesse in these stories highlighted the gaps in her own work. No matter how much effort she had poured into her stories, they still lacked something essential.
Tears welled up in her eyes, blurring the words on the page. She felt the weight of inadequacy pressing down on her chest, an all-too-familiar feeling she had tried to push away.
Rose: I'm…I'm still not good enough.
Just then, the sudden buzz of her phone broke through the silence, pulling her out of her thoughts. Hastily, she wiped away her tears with the back of her hand and reached for her phone, her fingers trembling slightly. When she unlocked the screen, she saw a message from her best friend, Amanda.
Amanda was the only one who knew Rose's secret—that she was the anonymous writer behind Reckless Soul. Rose had confided in her after the heartbreaking meeting with Mrs. Emily, and Amanda had promised to support her no matter what. Seeing her name on the screen brought a flicker of warmth to Rose's chest.
Mandy_Cyrus:
[Hey, I hope you're not still beating yourself up too much. Like Mrs. Emily said, this happens to everyone, and I know you'll learn from this and become a better writer. And I'll be here to offer you my 10000% support!!! 💪🏻💪🏻💪🏻]
A small smile crept onto Rose's lips. Despite the lingering sadness, Amanda's words reassured her. It was comforting to know that even in moments of doubt, she wasn't entirely alone.
She took a deep breath, steadying herself.
Rose: Guess I'll get to it then..
Just as she was about to put her phone down, another message from Amanda popped up on the screen.
Mandy_Cyrus:
[And also, if you need more inspiration to write better, there's this Twibbler account called Lonelygirl4556 that gained a lot of traction over the summer. They post well-written poems every evening. I know you don't write poetry, but I thought this might help. After all, she's a writer too, and you might find something inspiring. Let me know how it turns out.]
Curious, Rose tapped on the Twibbler app and typed Lonelygirl4556 into the search bar. Within seconds, an account popped up with over a thousand followers. She clicked on it, scrolling through the posts filled with poignant, beautifully written poetry.
She sighed, adjusting her glasses as she muttered,
Rachel: Alright, Lonelygirl4556, let's see what you got for me.